


Clashing Steel

by gnosiophobic



Series: Footprints in the Snow [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 04:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnosiophobic/pseuds/gnosiophobic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Passion.</p><p>Closer he pushed, closer, closer, until he pressed against her.  Her heat, sweat, and nearness taunted him, and when her warm breath tickled the golden hairs on his chin, he nearly closed his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clashing Steel

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory sword fighting filled with sexual tension (because I could never get bored of that). As always, comments and feedback are greatly appreciated!
> 
> The characters and universe are not mine, nor do I claim any type of ownership to them. GRRM gets all the credit here.

“Come, wench.  I’m out of practice,” Jaime beckoned, tossing her a tattered tourney sword taken from a squire found dead in the woods a day earlier.  _Winter has come, indeed,_ he’d thought as he scavenged the frozen body, trying not to think of young Podrick.  Ice sparkled on the dead boy's blue lips, and the sight burned behind Jaime's eyes.

Each night grew colder now, far colder than any winter he remembered and he knew this long night had just begun.   _But frozen worries can wait,_ he thought, _right now I'm in need of a good fight._ Weeks had passed since his last proper spar and he itched for the feel of steel in his fingers, the weight of his blade upon a foe.  Dutifully, Brienne followed him to an open clearing, tourney sword in hand, Oathkeeper at her hip.  _She’ll admit less of my skill than the tongueless Payne_ , he laughed.

“Why should I get a dull tourney sword, while you wield a sharp one of steel?” Brienne asked, disdainfully.

“You still have both your hands,” Jaime shook his stump at her playfully.  “And, in case you’ve forgotten, I’ve lost my best one.”  Brienne remained unsatisfied.  Sighing, Jaime searched the woods around him until he spotted a wooden stick of about the same weight and length as a poorly made tourney sword.

“Better?” he asked, irritation laced his voice.  She nodded confidently, then readied herself.

The excitement overcame him as he charged at her first, hard and strong, over and over.  Raw wood clashing against poorly forged metal, singing out into the forest, scattering birds from the trees.  Soon, he fought not only Brienne, but also guilt, jealousy, and cupidity, pushing them, stabbing them, besting them.  He fought until he felt free, until he saw nothing but Brienne with her tourney sword, determined and wielding the thing as though it was forged from the finest Valyrian steel.  The sight made cold air stick in his throat.  

With a joyous smack, his wooden stick met her shoulder, forcing an arrogant grin to his face.

“Pity I have this useless thing.  That would have made for a beautiful love bite,” he taunted as he thrust again, this time reaching her outer thigh.  “And that, too, something to remember me by.”

“Doubt I’ll need help remembering you,” if she lacked the accusatory tone, it could have settled sweetly on his ears.

“Come, my lady,” he allured.  “This dance is far from over.”

Before long he remembered her game, though he’d blamed a year of imprisonment then.  Even now, he hadn’t a chance to practice with Ser Ilyn Payne in far too long, and he knew he fought better than this.

Brienne held back, as she did when he still fought two-handed, and soon his arms began to scream and his legs, moan.  Then she thrusted, and thrusted, and he parried, until he found himself backed against a large tree.  After an especially clumsy parry and a satisfied laugh, he managed to duck away, finally gaining a chance to force her against the bark.  Specks of brown dust fell around her as she squirmed to get away.  Her brow furrowed in frustration, her cheeks flushed, her mouth fell slightly agape, releasing small grunts into the space between them, and his heart began to race.  Closer he pushed, closer, closer, until he pressed against her.  Her heat, sweat, and proximity taunted him, and when her warm breath tickled the golden hairs on his chin, he nearly closed his eyes.

Suddenly, he felt his wooden stick snap in two with a loud crack.  Brienne gripped her broken half tight, blanching the freckled skin of her fist.  And Jaime held her there, unwilling to face the cold air, again alone.

“Not your best idea, Ser,” she whispered, her eyes darting to the shoddy weapon. 

“Certainly not,” he growled with a wry smile before he pushed his mouth to hers, much more forceful than the night under the stars.  This time, too much had boiled under the surface, too much had haunted him and for too long. His kiss was vigorous and demanding, and she accepted, grazing large, calloused fingers through golden curls, only stoking a fire already out of control.  In an instant, his broken weapon dropped to the soiled snow, trading dusty, coarse wood for the soft velvet of her neck.  And lips urgently followed fingertips along its pale column, tainting her skin with ache.  Breaths became heavy and labored, their sound called out as he trailed the space below her ear with soft nips and pressed his palm firmly into the slight curve of her waist.  Weakly, a forgotten part of him fought, but overwhelming desire consumed him, forcing him to yield, to give in, to push against her harder.  And once he returned to her mouth, he let his tongue taste hers for a moment; the forbidden sweetness only corrupted him further.  He didn’t want to pull away, never wanted to part from the moment, but somehow, he did.

Her eyes met his then, wide and full of questions to which he had no answers.  Instead of speaking, of trying to force some sort of apology he surely wouldn’t mean, he stumbled away and marched beyond the trees, searching for something, anything, to preoccupy him.

 

That evening they supped on a roasted fawn Podrick had proudly slain and a meager amount of berries Hyle Hunt gathered.  As the meat seared and hissed, Jaime caught Brienne’s eyes more than once over the fire.  Occasionally, he’d refuse to tear away, perhaps playing a game with himself to see just how uncomfortable she could become under the weight of his gaze.  Her brow would crease in confusion first, then she’d bite her lip and find something to busy herself with.  Until she looked back.  And she always looked back.  _I shouldn’t feel so much satisfaction from this_.  But he did, undeniably so.

When Hunt took a seat beside Brienne, Jaime grew bold and did the same.  Podrick sat across the fire, far too engrossed in his meal to notice the beginnings of a subtle spar.  Brienne, however, shifted uncomfortably, desperately trying to focus on nothing but the warm meal before her.

“It’s a delicious, juicy meat, isn’t it?” Hyle raised his brow and nudged her, suggestively.  Even with nothing but the light of fire to illuminate her face, her blush hid only slightly

“Indeed, it is,” Jaime pounced on Hunt’s poor jape.  “A magnificent fawn young Podrick brought back.  But I confess, I had hoped you’d return with more than a small handful of pruny berries, Ser,”  He saw Brienne turn to him slowly, as though he’d gone mad.

“Ah, well, perhaps if we’d had an extra _hand_ , we may have brought back more.” Now the exchange had become enough to pull even Pod’s attention away from his meal.  “Really, Lannister, what did you two do while Podrick and I were away?  Certainly not gathering firewood as you’d said,” _Something I should regret, but can’t_.  Jaime had nearly forgotten his excuse to free them from hunting and Brienne’s face turned a ghastly white now.

“I did,” Jaime announced with much more confidence than he felt.  “But the wench wouldn’t follow me as I asked.  Instead, she stayed behind to watch the camp.  And, as you know, a one-handed cripple can only carry a pitiful amount.  But I suppose you could fetch the pile I gathered, Ser,” Jaime’s face turned mischievous.  The hedge knight had grated on him for far too long.  “It should be found in any one of the seven hells.  I do hope you find it,” Hyle shook his head in surrender at that. _Good,_ he thought, _perhaps I’ve freed myself of your bothersome voice for one night._

Brienne smiled nervously at the boy across the fire. “Great job, Pod,” she offered.  Podrick beamed as though he’d missed the quarrel entirely.

 

Jaime spent the last hours of fading daylight teaching Pod to carve a whistle from wood, lest travelers find his frozen body along the road and scavenge his modest sword.  The whistle made a distinctive earthy sound when finished, and the noise brought an elated smile to the boy’s face.  Jaime, too, had learned to whittle as a young squire, but he constructed much more than little whistles.  He’d carefully crafted lions and wolves, stags and dragons, but always felt too embarrassed to keep them, scattering them amongst his travels of the seven kingdoms instead.  Sometimes he’d leave one at an inn, hoping a child might find it and take it as a toy.  Sometimes he’d thrown them in the mud, lions and wolves alike.   _But a simple whistle is all Podrick needs,_ Jaime decided as he proudly slapped the boy on the back.

A cool breeze grazed his cheek, warning of another frigid night. Swiftly, he looked about the camp, noting only Hyle Hunt contemptuously sharpening his sword.  Brienne had disappeared amongst the trees once again.   _She fights with a sword readily enough, but runs from that she can't see._ Leisurely, he strolled into the darkening woods, patting his horse along the way while whistling a familiar tune.  It all felt a bit juvenile chasing after her as he did, but he wanted to hear her banter, he wanted to jape and mock, he wanted to make her cheeks flush.   _If the long winter should take us, I'd rather die with a smile than drown in my sad longing_ , and he wanted to see her smile, too.  As she did before they stormed the Brotherhood camp, before she broke her vow to Catelyn Stark.

She stood tall, wistfully leaning against the very tree where he had lost himself to her exhilarating nearness.

“Playing hard to get?” Jaime mocked.  The quip reminded him of times long past.  “You certainly weren’t earlier today."

“Jaime..” His name sounded timid and exquisite on her lips, like extravagant velvet, and he wanted to hold it close, to listen to it again and again until it wore down to bare thread.

“You hardly speak to me for weeks, you consider wedding a dolt like Hunt.. You remind me of my duty only to pin me against a tree.”  His voice light as his golden hand rested upon the bark.

“You misremember, Ser,” her tone now indignant.  “It was you who pinned me.”

“I merely returned the favor,” his arm slipped down the bark, brushing her shoulder, unsure of its intention.  “Why didn’t you stop me?”  Brienne stiffened then.

“You stopped yourself well enough.”

“I’m not sure how,” Jaime admitted with a tender laugh as he rested his good hand atop hers.  He shivered some, but blamed the growing cold.

“You know,” he grinned, despite his apparent remorse.  “Traveling with you was much easier when you were just a wench.”  Brienne’s eyes shot to him then, alive with amusement as a rare, but genuine smile graced her face--the one that made her almost beautiful, the one he'd carry with him to recall on his darkest days and coldest nights.

“And you, the Kingslayer.”


End file.
